star light, star bright (i only see the stars tonight)
by Verdantia Akalixi
Summary: The stars above him blur and slip out of focus, hazes of sparking light blinking on and off. It's rhythmic, hypnotizing. His mind drifts with the pattern of the stars and he loses himself in the shuttering spirals. On. Off. On. "Have you ever seen Hei pay his price?" or: a drabble in which Hei is Definitely Not Okay, and nobody knows what's going on.


The stars above him blur and slip out of focus, hazes of sparking light blinking on and off. It's rhythmic, hypnotizing. His mind drifts with the pattern of the stars and he loses himself in the shuttering spirals. On. Off. On.

A sound. It slides off him effortlessly, cocooned. Safe. Solitary. "Hei!"

He is alone with the silence of the stars.

The jangling approaches. Louder, but soundless. Hei doesn't hear it. It doesn't exist.

"Where have you been? Huang is apoplectic. Just because I don't report you for my own curiosity's sake doesn't mean it's worth getting my ass chewed out because he thinks I know where you went. Go. Oi – are you listening to me?"

The air is cool. It caresses his skin, an old lover, sending pleasant chills up his arms and down his spine. He almost imagines it dancing, lilting off the narrow alleyways of Tokyo and spiraling upward to the night sky. It calls to him, seeking, yearning.

"Hei. What's wrong with you. Oi, Hei!" Pinpricks of pain pierce his thigh. He would've been able to identify it as cat claws digging into his skin, if he noticed – but Hei doesn't.

He wants to follow the wind. He stands up. A peculiar moment of stasis comes over him then, as if he is frozen in time, as ageless as the ever-blinking stars. They are eternity, an unfathomable distance away. So is he. He stands there, and watches. Waiting.

Maybe he'll stay here forever.

Mao is… concerned. Or as concerned as a Contractor can be. Hei didn't show up to the meeting, didn't contact either him or Huang. Yin only manages to find him after hours of searching, finally spying a familiar figure cloaked in black through a discarded shard of glass lying on a distant rooftop. Mao barely waits to confirm the find before he leaps away and off, trusting Huang and Yin to relay any important information on his way there. There is something wrong, something that he can feel in his gut, some leftover cat instinct that puts an unpleasant, creeping itch under his fur.

He isn't worried. He's just concerned.

Yin gives him directions; she doesn't tell him what Hei is doing. Mao wonders at the oversight until he gets there, bell jingling obnoxiously and lungs heaving. The Contractor part of his brain chides him for being so out of breath and vulnerable, for not pacing himself – but his instincts scream higher and finally with a shake of his head Mao concentrates on the still form of the Black Reaper.

He is sitting on an exposed ventilation duct, head turned to the sky. It is a cloudy night, as usual for the time of year. No stars can be seen. Even the fakes would have been a comfort against the light-polluted dark grey that currently blankets the city, Mao thinks. He checks his connection – it is almost the stroke of midnight, and the realization sends a shiver down his spine that makes his fur stand on end. Part of him wants to puzzle at his odd reaction, but he shoves that down along with the rest. "Hei."

"Hei!" No reply. Fine. Be that way. Mao launches into it anyway, uncaring that the Black Reaper hasn't deigned to acknowledge his presence. He's listening. Hei always listens.

Except this time he's not. "Hei. What's wrong with you. Oi, Hei!"

There isn't so much as a twitch, and Mao knows that something has gone desperately wrong. Hei can be an enigmatic jackass, but this isn't that. He can't say how he knows, but there is a very un-Contractor-like certainty sitting uneasily in his gut. Finally, not so fool as to think continuing to talk will do any good, Mao tries another way – and sinks his claws into Hei's thigh, ruthlessly deep.

The Black Reaper doesn't so much as twitch, and after a short pause merely stands up, oddly motionless even in the action. He still doesn't speak. He hasn't even glanced at Mao, or given any indication that he's aware of his presence. He stands up, and then he doesn't move again.

Mao takes a deep, steadying breath – or as deep as his small body's lungs will allow. "Huang."

"What?" Comes the raspy grump of his handler.

"Have you ever seen Hei pay his price?"

The end of the line hisses, static, for a long moment. "Why are you asking?" There is a tone in the answering question that Mao can't read, and he feels his ears flatten. He's trying to figure out what to say that won't get him kicked out of the Syndicate – or more importantly, that won't get him shot, when Yin's flat, airy voice comes on the line.

"He doesn't have one."

Mao chokes; he's pretty sure Huang does too. "Yin!" The man demands, "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Don't lie to me, you useless Doll!"

"He doesn't have one."

Mao stares at Hei, and absently wonders how the seams of this world managed to crack apart so thoroughly without him noticing.


End file.
